


Hollow Point

by Kat2107



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Superpowers, they also have sex, they both have a job to do, two men meet in a dingy bar in Panama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27366169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat2107/pseuds/Kat2107
Summary: Joshua Taylor has been a mercenary for far too long. He was quickly reaching a point where he no longer could ignore how tired he was.That's one of the reasons he took this job. It is also the reason he takes Quinn back to his hotel room, not giving a fuck about how dangerous the man is.No regrets there, but sex is sex and a job is a job.Joshua is willing to die for this one. The question is: is Quinn?
Relationships: OMC/OMC
Comments: 14
Kudos: 16





	Hollow Point

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original story I wrote when I needed a palate cleanser for my book. So, naturally, I went for some background story for a pair of side characters.  
> If you think that means I wrote fanficiton for my own story... well, yes, it does.  
> Enjoy!

Nightlife meandered aimlessly through Panama City. The sweltering heat between the high rises swallowed the sounds of cars and music alike, leaving only muted figures roaming the streets in search of some reprieve. Lights over outdoor bars swayed in a feeble ocean breeze, their romantic glow a pretty veneer for the ugliness beneath.

Ever since the Europeans had failed to take South America from the Incas, Panama was stuck in the middle, the unwilling spearhead in a silent war. What the Spaniards had failed, the Americans now attempted with blackmail, money, and deceit, turning Panama into a distorted mirror of the continents it connected. Its high-rises towered over streets where crooks and mercenaries fought battles for those who preferred not to get their hands dirty.

Friends conversing in roadside restaurants might just as likely be business partners trying to sell the world. And the lovers sitting intimately close in bars might be sharing sweet whispers of affection or dangerous secrets.

This side of Panama - the one with the money - never slept.

***

Joshua Taylor pulled the sweat-soaked shirt away from his chest and bared his teeth. Last week he had plucked a firing gun from a man’s hand and killed him with one punch. Today, all he wanted was to exchange his so-called "superpowers" for temperature resilience. There had to be a joke in there somewhere, but his sense of humor had fucked off, longing for the cool climate of his native Michigan.

His fingers slowly turned a 7.62 cartridge on the bar top. Someone had etched his name, his real name, into the metal and shipped it to his business post box more than a month ago.

“Open when you want something different,” the note had read.

Watching its slow spin on the worn wood, Joshua couldn’t help but think  _ Different from what? _

For him, it came down to killing people. Even the guard jobs. Nobody hired a Tank if they didn’t have real problems. Real problems, real assailants, real bodies in the end. There was no reason for him to carry the damn cartridge with him through job after job. The offer likely had expired in the meantime and he still hadn’t cracked the casing.

Past Joshua would’ve gotten rid of the thing weeks ago. And he wouldn’t have taken this job. 

If violence was a continuum, him and his cousin balanced on opposing sides. Noah didn’t do violence. He didn’t do judgement either. He’d jotted down Joshua’s mail adress years past and solemnly sworn to never, in his own words, “Misuse it”. Noah was a real mensch.

But he also opened his emails with “you are the only one I can trust with this.” Damn him. 

Shoving the bullet back into his pocket, Joshua took a sip of warm scotch and cast a glance around the bar.

Cigarette smoke and the sweat of a dozen men had turned the narrow room into a sauna. Each of these men hid from the outside world in one way or another. The heat and humidity was the price they paid for privacy. Had a tourist managed to stumble in, the melting hot air would have propelled them right back out the door.

Jorge, the owner and barkeeper, didn’t mind either way. He accepted anyone who put cash on the bar and didn’t cause trouble. Within five days, he had granted Joshua a seat at the bar and reserved a bottle of his favorite whiskey under the counter. 

Joshua’s thoughts were disturbed by the front door opening. All heads turned. Framed by the sunset glow of the street lamps behind him, the newcomer appeared to be a tourist. No one sensible wore a suit in this heat. Then Joshua saw the shoes. Combat boots with a pressed gray suit. His adrenaline spiked.

The door closed and cut off the orange halo, leaving a pale stranger with brown hair, military short but cut in an expensive style.

At first glance, Joshua put him around his own age, early thirties. Then he mentally subtracted the well-groomed five o’clock shadow and the man looked not much older than twenty-five, with soft gray eyes and sensual lips. His body though... His body was a fighter’s, lean and mean, with shoulders that might grow a touch broader yet. He also carried a gun under his suit jacket.

He was everything that pinged Joshua’s senses and the last thing he needed right now. Joshua wasn’t here for pleasure and distractions in his line of work could be fatal. 

As if he’d read Joshua’s thoughts, Suit Boy’s eyes snapped to him. His gaze wandered the exact same route Joshua’s had taken, from combat boots, over the ratty cargo pants and sweat-soaked t-shirt. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the knife sheaths. Moving up, he checked Joshua’s arms and throat, swallowing before he caught his gaze. The stranger’s lips opened on a soft exhale and just like that, the faint idea of attraction turned into a low hum of heat deep in Joshua’s body. 

Like a moth drawn to a flame, the stranger headed straight for the bar. He slid onto the stool next to Joshua, his grace and confidence unfazed by the dozen or more stares he garnered.

“How bad is the beer?” he asked in a crisp European, not quite English, accent. 

Joshua’s lips twitched. “You’ll forget how bad as soon as you’re one in.”

The man’s gaze dropped to the glass in front of Joshua, then back up and his mouth curled into a smirk. “That, coming from an American, is a warning.” 

Then he ordered in perfect Spanish, and Joshua knew he was in trouble. Competence did him in every time. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a level-headed voice whispered not to risk it and was immediately drowned out. Almost a year of having only his own hands for company does that to a man. The desperate edge of hunger in those grey eyes felt too familiar. Joshua nodded to Jorge. “Make it a cold one.” He placed five dollars on the bar top and sought the stranger’s eyes.

Suit Boy smiled. "I'm Quinn."

Joshua raised his glass. "Joshua."

Quinn took his beer, giving another quick smile to Jorge. Then he faced Joshua with the tender and polite curiosity of someone desperate to get past the obligatory smalltalk.

“You here for work, Joshua?”

“Yes. You?”

“Me too. Good market,” Quinn said and took a swig.

It was. With the amount of illegal and political maneuvering going on in Panama, Quinn could be here for anything, but somehow Joshua didn’t feel he was talking about that.

Their eyes met over the bottle. Joshua wanted to taste those lips and trace the sweat glistening on that throat. Fuck, if he was honest, he just wanted to hear another man’s moan again. Quinn lowered the bottle and licked his lips.

Joshua’s eyes flicked down, then back up to the smiling grey eyes.

He felt his mouth curl into a smile without conscious thought. “A good market, yeah. Sometimes with special opportunities.” Ones that a mercenary couldn’t normally risk taking because it might ruin his reputation.

Quinn though… “Aren’t we all looking for opportunities?”

Joshua stood. “C’mon. Bring the beer.”

They hit the streets in silence. Quinn lit a cigarette. Around them, people mingled, but none spared more than a glance for a pair of men who walked as if they had somewhere to be. Nobody followed their path through a small backyard and into the narrow street behind Joshua’s hotel where the night shrouded them in a cloak of sensual privacy. Nobody saw Joshua grab Quinn by the lapels and reeled him in for a kiss.

He tasted of cheap beer, stale smoke and a faint whiff of desperation.

The plan had been to give Quinn a chance to pull out with a punch and a curse in case they had gotten their signals wrong. Instead, Quinn took Joshua’s hand and guided it to the shoulder holster under his suit jacket, murmuring against Joshua’s lips: "Undress out here or you fine with weapons in the room?"

Joshua had to bite back a laugh.

It might have been a trap, an upstart trying to get close enough to get a shot at fame and one of the bounties on Joshua’s head. One of Joshua’s former employers could have sent him; one of the three-letter agencies that didn’t appreciate him running about. Quinn wouldn’t be the first, although he was the first to try and sleep with Joshua before trying to kill him.

He would fail unless he had some serious aces up his sleeve, but Joshua wasn’t in the mood to fend off a would-be assassin with his pants down. Leaning back, he held Quinn at arm’s length, dragging him upwards just enough to let him feel the strength of his grip. “Listen, hotshot, let’s cut to the chase, there is no weapon you could have on you that could kill me.”

Quinn’s gaze sharpened but what Joshua saw was not fear. “Laser powered scalpel?” he asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“My carotid would heal within seconds.”

“That’s impossible. Unless you’re…. “ Understanding dawned in widening eyes and on a sharp breath. “Taylor. Joshua Taylor.” Quinn swallowed. “Hot damn.”

Joshua released him and stepped back. He didn’t get far.

Quinn grabbed him by the back of the neck to drag him into another kiss, a violent press of lips, teeth and powerful kinetic energy that crackled through the cage of Quinn’s control. A tremor of excitement ran up Joshua’s spine.

They stumbled into Joshua’s room with no distance between them. Joshua kicked the door shut and, in the same move, jerked the suit jacket down Quinn’s arms to throw it onto the chair in the corner.

The Beretta from the shoulder holster flew onto the shabby table, followed by the knives from both their belt and ankle sheaths. Then Quinn’s pinky hooked into the wire band that curled around Joshua’s wrist. “On or off?”

“You scared?” Joshua murmured against the soft skin below Quinn’s ear.

Quinn shuddered. “No,” he murmured with a sly grin and locked eyes with Joshua. “No.”

"Yeah," Joshua drawled, "you're not scared. You're so horny that you wouldn't care if I were Jack the Ripper."

Quinn laughed low in his chest. "Look who's talking."

Joshua silently held Quinn’s gaze as he opened his shirt button by button until the laughter died and was replaced by soft open-mouthed pants. Quinn tasted of salt and smelled of fresh sweat and expensive cologne. He’d changed into this suit shortly before coming to the bar. Joshua was sure Quinn hadn’t been there for him specifically. Still, it felt like a present just for him.

“Let me fuck you,” he whispered.

Quinn’s eyes darkened. "Is this a challenge or a request?"

A test, Joshua almost said, though there was no reason for him to test Quinn. He didn't plan on doing more with him than a night of careless sex. Maybe, if they ever met again, but for now Joshua wanted Quinn's body, not his impeccable character. Still, something compelled him to answer. "What's the difference?"

"I'm not in the mood to fight, is the difference."

Leaning in, Joshua made sure the heat of his breath brushed over the sensitive bow of Quinn’s ear as he brought their bodies flush. "Please,” He let the emphasis register. “let me fuck you. No pain, no kinky shit, just a plain ol' good time."

Against him, Quinn shuddered, his erection a spot of hot pressure against Joshua’s hip.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Joshua crooned.

“Fuck,” Quinn said. His head thudded against the wall behind him. “Yes.”

***

Joshua woke the moment Quinn slunk out of bed. Under his hand, the mattress still held a warm indentation, a fading memory, while the reality slowly picked discarded clothes off the floor.

The tiniest spark of pain as he adjusted his head reminded Joshua of round number two they'd gone, squeezed into the tiny shower. Quinn had dug his teeth deep enough into Joshua's shoulder for him to feel it, all laughter gone as he took Joshua apart with the kind of desperation that lived in these anonymous hotel rooms and meetings that left only first names with the memories. Lighter damage always took longer to heal, but he’d be hard-pressed to remember the last man that left a mark.

A smirk crept over Joshua’s lips. They could have gone a third round, Joshua was sure of it. It wasn't really reliable to judge a man's regeneration abilities based on his refractory period, but he bet his left toes that Quinn had some kind of self-healing. No regeneration or he wouldn’t bear the scars that faintly shimmered in the streetlight falling through the windows.

Quinn either didn’t notice the attention or he didn’t care. He dressed with quiet efficiency, boots, shirt, holster, a man ready to fight and with somewhere to be. He picked his gun off the table and checked the magazine, chamber, and safety before holstering it. Not an amateur then. Good. Amateurs tended to get themselves killed and, while he didn’t make it a habit to care, Joshua had always hated when younger men died.

At the door, Quinn hesitated and cast a glance towards the bed and Joshua as if he was looking for something.

When no reaction came, the door closed. 

***

Joshua was still thinking about the sex the next morning. Panama traffic flowed across the busy intersection he had chosen, cars honking, people yelling, but in his mind Quinn was still digging his teeth into Joshua’s shoulder, moaning his name. And that was why hooking up a job was a bad idea. Unnecessary distractions. Didn't mean he wouldn't do this particular distraction again. 

Just not now. Not when the anonymity of 4000 gifted Jewish Americans was on the line. 

It didn’t matter where that list came from or how Noah got wind of it. These people had managed to hide their status for decades by denying the stories of their families’ suffering. Nobody had a right to expose them. If the US government wanted to use Gifted people, they could start by treating them right. Joshua knew their truth. The army’s so-called “equality” and “respect” wasn’t worth yesterday’s beer for him to piss on. 

He righted the dirty baseball cap to hide his snarl, but nobody paid him any heed. With the plain shirt and the clean jeans, he looked like any other laborer enjoying the afternoon sun, soon to head home.

Unless, of course, something happened. 

Joshua rose from the low concrete railing. The phone in his back pocket vibrated. 4:40pm.

His target had chosen a five-story building for the handover. Too close to busier parts to sneak up unnoticed. Far enough for privacy. The branch office of an American bank occupied the lower floor, with all the extra security that came with it. To even access the building, an attacker had to get his hands on a keycard and a code. 

The code, Joshua had traded from a woman working at the bank for the price of her dead husband’s ring. She had smiled with relief as she handed him the piece of paper and didn’t ask where he dumped the body. The ring’s signet, he had noticed, matched the fading bruise on her cheek.

That had been phase zero. 

Another glance around the small plaza: no one looked in his direction. No forward sentries. Phase one was a go. 

And if his contact had been wrong, some innocent was in for a nasty surprise. But then, no one innocent drove a limousine in Panama, especially the one that turned the corner at that moment. 

The light at the intersection jumped to green. The driver sped past. 

Three. Two. One. 

Joshua flipped the switch. 

The peaceful afternoon shattered in the explosion. The limousine jerked to the right, careened across the intersection, and crashed into the opposite traffic lights. Passersby had already jumped out of the way, running as their hard won instincts kicked in. In Panama, if you didn’t run at the sound of an explosion, you never ran again.

A shrill scream ripped through the stunned silence. A car honked. Joshua didn’t wait for the dust to settle. He raced towards the limo. 

He dismissed the man hyperventilating in the backseat. A mid-level suit licking the boots of the rich and mighty. Someone like that didn't open their own doors. No, that's what they had bodyguards for. 

The pole of the traffic light had twisted the front into a mess of tangled metal and glass. Steam shot into the air. The car’s reinforced middle frame had withstood the impact, but the passenger window had shattered into a thousand tiny shards. After a quick glance, Joshua wrenched the blocked door open with a twist of his forearm.

Inside, a man with shaved hair and a bleeding forehead groaned softly. The young man in the driver’s seat stared in wide-eyed shock, blood dripping from his lips, clutching his spectacularly dislocated hand to his chest. 

"No se preocupe señor, voy a ayudarlo," Joshua said and leaned in. The driver nodded slowly, unfocused eyes searching Joshua’s face. 

The goon in the passenger seat didn’t move. Joshua took a moment to assess him. He might be another Tank and that might be a problem. Nobody needed the guy to snap awake and start swinging. That worry dissipated quickly. The man’s boots were Russian military, like his haircut, and the Russians never let their Talented go. They lived for the army and they died there. 

Joshua’s hand patted over the man’s jacket pockets. He ignored the keys, the gun and the mint rolls, but pulled the wallet from the inner jacket pocket. Inside, he found a few dollars, a credit card, a likely fake ID. Pressing a curse between his teeth, Joshua flicked it between the guy’s feet. Behind him, people started to shout and some men were rounding the car to get to the driver’s door. 

Joshua yelled back over his shoulder to buy a few more seconds. He wriggled his left hand under the jammed seatbelt and into the right pant pocket. A bit of luck and the right instinct was all he needed. He grabbed the plastic card between his index and middle finger, tearing the pocket seam to wriggle it free. 

With one last reassuring smile to the young driver, Joshua flipped the keycard into his sleeve and bowed out of the car. 

“¡Necesito un cuchillo!” - I need a knife- he yelled to the crowd. An older man holding a belt cutter shoved him aside. Joshua melded back between the people, shading his face with the brim of his cap to avoid curious eyes. The whole thing hadn’t taken five minutes.

Ducking into an alley off the intersection, he chucked the plaid shirt and cap. 

When he walked out, he wore a black button-down and stylish black-rimmed glasses. 

His target rose from the midst of lots cleared for development. A modern city block with tiny balconies running around from the second floor to the fifth. Perfectly manicured lawn gave the whole thing an air of old-world exclusivity. People who lived here believed they’d made it.

Nobody apprehended him as he crossed past the adjacent lot, empty and cleared for development, but as soon as his toes crossed the manicured lawn, a security came dashin in his direction. 

“Hey! This is private property.” 

Joshua stopped and took him in. American. Semi-automatic held at a 45° angle, muzzle pointing down. Good trigger discipline. In all of the week he had watched the building, Joshua had never seen him. Perfect. 

Plastering a too-wide grin to his face, he pointed up at a window. Above it, a dull gleam of gunmetal moved behind the window dressing. Joshua quickly dropped his gaze back to the security guard and cranked up the fake Spanish accent. 

“You new, eh? I live up there. Third floor. That’s mine.” Almost true. A man wearing black-rimmed glasses lived in the building, on the third floor. But as it happened, he had left to see his mother two days ago. “Something wrong? With the guns and everything?”

The guard shook his head and grumbled. “Security upgrade. People have been sneaking around.” 

“Ah! Better security is better.” Joshua produced the keycard and waved it in front of the guard’s face. “But I live here.” 

At that moment, two more men turned the corner, carrying guns with the nonchalance of pros. Joshua waved the guard along as he headed straight for the door. 

“Come,” he said, “I show you.”

Swiping the keycard through, he forced a smile on his face for the good old army-trained boy staring at his back. Buying some goodwill as he hammered in the numbers. 

His fingers slipped on the unfamiliar keys. The keypad buzzed in rejection. The guard tensed. For one hot second, he was dead. Then Joshua brought his thoughts under control, a harsh reminder that he'd deliberately chosen to go the difficult route. 

"Sorry," he said and ducked his head. "Nervous." An explanation as good as any in the presence of a gun. 

He tried again, slower this time. The idea that the woman had given him the wrong numbers a cold weight at the back of his head. Then the light above the pad turned green and the door unlocked. 

The guard nodded. Joshua gave him another shaky smile and slipped inside. 

Emptiness greeted him. The desk to the left sat deserted. They had truly switched the whole rotation, including the doorman that would’ve recognized anybody not belonging here. Joshua breathed a low sigh of relief and headed for the stairway. Elevators had a nasty habit of security cameras.

As he slowly climbed the floors, ready for an attack that didn’t come, realization dawned that whoever had planned this handover had prepared for an outright assault. The bulk of his troops blocked off the entrance. The snipers in the building pointed outside. Beyond that point, the participants likely demanded privacy. No more grunts, no advantage for any party. The buyer had travelled with one bodyguard, so that was what would be waiting on the roof. 

Joshua touched the cool metal of the fire safety door that led outside and checked his watch. 4:53 pm. 

On a whim, he knocked. 

“What?” bellowed a muffled voice with a crisp European accent. 

“Sir, there’s been an accident on the main road.” 

The door unlocked. Joshua planted his feet. In the low afternoon light, the first thing he saw was a silhouette in a suit. 

Every cell in Joshua’s brain erupted with the bitterness of a betrayal that he should have seen coming. Then Quinn shifted and Joshua saw his eyes widen in shock and realization. 

Suspicion turned into disbelief. Well, shit. 

Shit. 

They'd had sex. Good sex. He had liked Quinn. 

Joshua took a deep breath and plastered a smirk on his face. "Am I interrupting something?" 

Quinn cast a quick glance to the man with the suitcase in the background, then squared his shoulders and turned back to Joshua. "That wholly depends on who you are." 

A tremor of relief ran down Joshua's spine. Quinn didn’t want his client to find out. That opened up a myriad of possibilities. Tell the client where Quinn had spent the last night. Sow discord, mistrust, and watch them tear each other apart. Quinn's lips thinned. He knew. And there was nothing he could do about it. If Joshua decided to acknowledge him, no matter the outcome, Quinn was toast. 

Joshua gently took off his glasses and dropped them. "I’m the new recipient of your merchandise, of course." 

"And I’m in the mood for a fight," Quinn said. 

He planted himself firmly between his charge and Joshua, moving backward to give himself room to maneuver. Then he shifted his stance to better distribute his weight and a faint smile stretched his lips. It felt like an invitation. If Joshua wanted the suitcase, he’d have to get out of the doorway’s protection. 

Joshua rolled his shoulders and shifted with him. "Awww, c'mon. I went through so much hassle to get here. Killed, maimed, stole, cheated… Shouldn't a man be rewarded for his hard work?"

Quinn balled his fist. 

Joshua knew it was coming, he braced for it. He was ready. The next moment he crashed into the wall behind him. And then onto his knees. The world dipped to the side and righted itself with a jolt.

His shoulder crunched as bones snapped back into position and his arm righted itself. The wave of pain crested in his chest on a deep inhale.

He pushed himself up with the help of the wall at his back and cracked his neck with a smile. “Cute.”

The corners of Quinn’s mouth twitched. Then he charged. 

He launched himself upwards on the last step, telegraphing too much of his movements. Joshua twisted to the left, curled around the injured shoulder on instinct. Quinn’s right fist whistled past him, close enough that the crackling energy rippled over Joshua’s shirt. 

Joshua had seen the elegance in his movements the night before but hadn’t made the connection to his talents. He should have; for many telekinetics that extra bit of control came naturally. Lightning reflexes were rarer, but not unheard of. Quinn was agile, quick and deadly. Joshua… wasn’t. 

He rolled left, away from the wall

The next hit caught him half to his feet. Blood flooded his mouth. His ears rang. Joshua ducked immediately but it was already too late. Quinn’s shin slammed into his rib cage. Ribs caved inward, tearing on nerves in a cacophony of pain. Joshua’s knees hit the ground with a solid thud. His desperate gasps for air resonated in the silence. 

As Joshua looked up seconds later, Quinn had retreated two steps, chest heaving. His fingers stretched slowly at his side, curled in and stretched again.

Joshua forced his feet under him with a grin. His ribs clicked softly.

“There’s gotta be more,” he rasped, spitting a glob of blood at Quinn’s feet. “Are you holding back, pretty boy?” 

Quinn’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “How’s the ribs?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer. His fist slammed into Joshua’s jaw, throwing him off his feet, the sound of bones breaking reverberating in his ears. 

Joshua blinked at the floor. Concrete. Boring but very solid concrete. That stuff could take a pounding and keep standing. Blood obscured his vision again. He wiped it away with a careless hand. Behind Quinn, the merchant had moved closer. Idiot. Joshua’s jaw righted itself with a loud crack. 

Quinn was good. A bit of old fashioned boxing, a bit of martial arts. But like many who had no natural enemies in their field, he lacked variety. He dished out straight explosions of kinetic energy, always the same breath-in, breath-out rhythm. Charge, hit. But the pauses got longer.

Quinn’s shoulder cocked. Joshua pushed forward and jerked his arm up, palm out. 

He caught the fist before Quinn gained momentum. Quinn’s power reverberated like a gong through Joshua’s arm but lacked the force to do damage. Joshua pushed

He squeezed Quinn’s fist until he saw the first twitch of pain, then he shoved him away. 

“One invaluable life lesson, my friend.” Joshua set his shoulder and followed. “It doesn’t matter who dominates a fight.” 

He pulled the throwing knife from his belt sheath and flipped it in his hand. Quinn’s eyes widened. Joshua gave him the fraction of a second to duck, then he threw. As Quinn telegraphed his direction, Joshua charged. The knife sailed harmlessly over Quinn’s head, but Joshua hit him straight on and tackled him off his feet.

They crashed into the ground, Joshua on top, and this time Quinn’s ribs were the ones breaking. He gasped without the air to scream, struggling to dislodge Joshua or get enough room for another hit.

Joshua leaned up and slammed his fist down. “Only thing that matters is who ends it.” 

Blood splattered over Quinn’s black suit, painting his lips a deep, kiss-hungry red. Beautiful contrast to his eyes. 

“Fucking learn to pace your energy, you idiot,” Joshua growled as he rose to his knees and pulled back for the final blow. Quinn feebly raised an arm. Too late, too slow. It was over. 

Joshua released a shuddering breath, his fingers brushing Quinn’s neck. The contact was too fleeting to feel his pulse, but enough to get a sense of life under the skin. Then he stood and stretched, allowing his body to settle. He’d feel the bruises for another few hours at least. With some luck, he would still be feeling them tomorrow - a rare reminder that he was not immortal. 

A movement caught his attention. The merchant was trying to sneak past them. Joshua turned slowly. “Do you want this to hurt?”

“I called security,” the man spat, panicked eyes shifting left and right. As if on cue, yells and running feet sounded up from below. 

Right. Sometimes the difference between luck and skill was small enough to be indiscernible. Joshua wouldn't claim to have planned it that way, but he wouldn’t complain. 

He could have jumped straight from the roof, but he cherished a shattered ankle as much as the next person. As a kid, he had been afraid of heights. Then the army had strapped a parachute to his back and kicked him out of a plane. Dropping from balcony to balcony before the goons realized where he’d gone was child’s play. 

The merchant kept his gaze glued on Joshua as he moved backward at a snail's pace. He should have run.

Joshua rushed forward. The man raised the suitcase like a shield in front of him. One quick grab, a twist, and the merchant crumbled in a shrieking mess.

Sometimes, this was the funniest part of Joshua’s job. The man was a snake who sold anything to the highest bidder. Missile plans, private nudes, financial transaction records of political opponents. So what if Joshua overshot the goal a little. A broken wrist hadn’t killed anybody yet.

His feet brushed the edge of the roof. Five stories and for a moment he was a little boy again, staring down the high board into the pool. The first balcony was only 8 feet down. He took a quick breath and jumped. 

  
  


***

It was far past midnight when a knock woke him. For one disoriented moment, Joshua's mind flashed back to the army, to the times he got kicked out in the middle of the night and sent to some forsaken country they had no business being in. Then his world righted and he rolled out of bed to grab a pair of sweatpants and his boots. He gave himself five seconds to calm his racing heart. 

A ruin of a man, framed by the half light from the hallway, was leaning against Joshua's door frame.

"Hey". Joshua recognized Quinn, barely. The handsome face was shadowed and battered, an eye swollen shut, a cut through the eyebrow that was still oozing blood.

Joshua frowned. Before he could think better of it, he lifted Quinn's chin with a careful finger to take a better look. “That wasn’t me.” 

Quinn’s lips twitched and settled immediately when the movement tugged on the cut. “Unhappy boss.”

“The merchant?”

“No. He was the client.” 

Joshua pushed away from the frame and held the door open. “Come on in. Put some fucking ice on that.” 

“You got any?” Quinn made a beeline for the bed and sank onto the mattress with a sigh. Joshua followed him with an appraising gaze. Ribs, yes, and a messed up knee.

Anger bubbled in his belly. His fingers curled against the door. Before they left dents, he slammed it shut, locked it and made his way to the bathroom. 

“How long do you have?” he called back over his shoulder.

“Flying out in six hours.” 

Joshua paused, hand hovering over the stack of cooling packs under the sink. And he’d come to him. There was no answer to the questions arising from Joshua’s disillusioned conscience. He could think about it, force the issue; or he could just take this moment for what it was. Great sex, great fight, great mouth. 

His face in the mirror was flawless. No scars, no bruises, not even a fleck of blood remained of the mess it had been hours earlier. He tested a smile; gave up. 

“Here.” Dropping the cold packs next to Quinn, Joshua turned to the minibar and grabbed a bottle of bourbon. When he turned back, Quinn was still sitting in the same position, hands limply hanging between his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. 

“How hard did I hit your head?” Joshua asked, filling a glass. 

Quinn snorted. “Freight train level.” He took a deep breath and pushed a hand through his hair. “Jus’ tired.” 

When he still didn’t move, Joshua put the glass down and crossed the room. Quinn looked up. Something in his eyes softened. He shouldn’t look like this, like he had nothing left in him to refuse Joshua. Not just tired and in pain. Dejected.

“Sorry for the botched job.” Joshua gently peeled the jacket off Quinn. 

“Fuck the job. The world’s a better place because this guy is not selling the info.” Quinn blinked. “Unless you gave it to someone worse.” 

“Are you prying?” 

Joshua flicked open Quinn’s shirt buttons, noticing with faint amusement that Quinn had changed suits again. They looked the same, black on black, but this one was clean, crisp and undamaged. 

“Maybe. Is it working?” Quinn looked up, and finally, a spark returned to his eyes. 

“No.” Under the shirt lay a mess of pain and bruises that Joshua had put there. It looked older than it should, so he had been right about Quinn’s ability to heal but he might’ve overestimated the level. He slowly rubbed a thumb over the old knife scar on Quinn’s left shoulder.

“I didn’t give it to someone worse,” he murmured as a way of apology. 

A shadow of a smile ghosted over Quinn's lips. “Funny the shit you care about sometimes, hm?”

Joshua didn’t answer. He gently pushed Quinn back onto the bed and activated three of the cold packs. One for the ribs, one for the eye and one for the bruise on Quinn’s side that would get worse before it got better. He wanted to ask what Quinn’s boss had done. Why Quinn gave the man so much power. Instead, he grabbed the two glasses of bourbon and sat next to Quinn. Their fingers brushed as Joshua handed one over. 

They drank in silence. Joshua chased the smoky taste with his thoughts, waiting for the man beside him to relax or fall asleep. 

Quinn watched him. “We got four hours,” he finally said. 

Joshua took another sip. “Yes, and you should sleep most of them.” 

Looking down into the humor-gleaming eyes proved to be a mistake. He didn’t want to see Quinn’s lips curve in challenge. He didn’t want the damn thoughts that came with that smile. 

“For fuck’s sake, you can barely lift that glass, let alone your dick.” The bourbon tasted like nothing all of a sudden. Quinn’s next words sparked heat low in Joshua’s belly. 

“You’re more than capable of doing the lifting, friend.” 

Not your friend. Not anything. Just sex. “Are you a masochist or just plain dumb?”

Quinn’s smile grew into a grin. Joshua sighed and licked it right off his lips. 

He woke Quinn three hours later and fed him a cup of instant coffee along with a day-old Carimañolas and soggy fries. Oh the glamorous life of international crime. Quinn ate without fuss. He downed the painkillers Joshua dropped in front of him. They traded anecdotes. People they knew. Stories they’d heard. They laughed, carefully. 

When Quinn walked out the door, Joshua stopped him with a quick hand on his arm. “Hey. Learn to pace your strength. If you’re going up against tanks you need to take them down right away, or you prepare for a long fight.” 

Quinn laughed. “I heard you the first time, thanks. And I wouldn’t run around telling people how to take me down, if I were you.”

Joshua snorted. “Yeah, good luck finding someone who can.” 

He knew the moment he laid down the challenge that Quinn would try again. There was no place or time attached, not even a promise. Neither of them had asked for a phone number and Joshua swore he had forgotten that devil may care grin as soon as the man turned the corner. Joshua’s shoulder hurt, a faint reminder. It would be gone by lunch.

Joshua packed up and cleaned the room with clinical precision. Strip the bed, douse the linen with bleach. Don’t leave condoms, half eaten foods or fingerprints behind. The data chip with the list was burning a hole through the secret compartment in his knife’s handle. He was not about to let them have his own DNA in exchange. Or Quinn’s. The room would be rented out again within the hour. By the hour. And three clients later, new names and new moans would be etched into the stratigraphy of sex that was this mattress. 

His fingers jerked around the trash bag he was carrying to the elevator. 

Setting it down on the cum, blood and alcohol stained floor, the weight of the bullet in his pocket pressed into his skin. Someone had etched his name, his real name, into the brass. His thumb stroked over the indentations. Teller, Joshua. 

A new day’s promise, starting with a trash bag and the taste of old blood still lingering in his mouth. 

He clenched his fingers. 

The metal split. 

  
  
  



End file.
